


strike out

by AlexiaBlackbriar13



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shower Cuddling, Shower sex?, or the beginnings of it, post-7x07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 20:37:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16794292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexiaBlackbriar13/pseuds/AlexiaBlackbriar13
Summary: His wife was planning on surprising him in the shower for some fun, but Oliver's hyper-vigilance won't give him a moment of peace.





	strike out

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by [Tarrin's (@amellysbett) tweet](https://twitter.com/amellysbett/status/1068511716521201664) about Oliver going into defence mode when Felicity tries to join him in the shower because of his prison experiences.

Seven months in prison, and Oliver had forgotten what an utter godsend unlimited hot water was. After half a year having lukewarm, open showers where he was forced to stay on constant alert in case he was attacked from behind while he was naked and vulnerable, it was a relief to be standing on his own in a shower room with a waterfall beating down on his head, back and shoulder, the pressure easing his aching muscles.

It had barely been a couple of days since his release from Slabside; Oliver had spent them in a daze. He could still scarcely believe he was free and back with his family. Living in a house again (albeit an ARGUS provided safehouse, on the edge of Star City) with his wife didn’t feel real. Oliver was partly terrified that he was dreaming every time he woke up with Felicity in his arms, their legs tangled together and her hand resting over his heart. But it wasn’t a dream.

Nothing was the same as it was before, but he hadn’t expected it to be. There was a degree of tension between him and Felicity as although he had apologized profusely for leaving her out of the decision to give himself up to the FBI in exchange for capturing Diaz, (and specifically keeping that decision secret from her as well) she still hadn’t entirely forgiven him. He didn’t expect or want her to, though. Felicity was right to hold him accountable for his actions. She was right to be angry at him, hold her frustrations against him.

He deserved to feel guilty. William was still at school in Cambridge, and was likely to remain there until the holidays, and that was because Felicity had needed to send him away for his own safety when their witness protection had been compromised. Felicity herself had traveled to hell and back in her efforts to capture Diaz and get Oliver out of prison. The archer knew he had a lot to answer for and a lot to make up for when it came to his family - but Felicity insisted on him focusing on re-adjusting to society first.

Re-adjusting to wonderful, heated, high-pressure water wasn’t something Oliver was going to argue against. Having to fight for his life and the lives of many other innocent people during the Slabside riot had practically shattered his body all over again, and he still struggled to walk properly. He was content to stand under the shower for the next hour or so, feeling the tension leaking out of his bunched-up, strained muscles and finally relaxing him.

Oliver slipped his feet back in the shower tray and rested his hands on the wall, groaning at the delicious stretch the movement created in his shoulder blades. For the first time in seven months, Oliver allowed himself to begin dissociating from reality. He could afford to retreat into his own head - he didn’t need to be hypervigilant when he was safe at home.

He bowed his head under the hot water and breathed slowly until the only sound he could hear was the pumping of his own blood in his ears, and the steady drumming of the water on the shower room’s floor.

Frigid fingertips brushed against his lower back.

Red flashed through Oliver’s vision, his heart jolting wildly in his chest. Immediately, memories of being stabbed from behind in the prison showers and the agonizing pain that followed were dragged from his subconsciousness, causing adrenaline to flood his veins. His ears roaring and his whole body shaking with alarm, the archer whipped around, grabbing his attacker’s arm with a vice-like grip. He was unable to recognize who it was due to his panic blurring his vision, but he still swung them around to slam them up against the shower wall, with his arm braced against their throat.

Wide, slightly startled but strangely calm blue eyes stared back at him. Within seconds, he recognized them. “It’s Felicity, Oliver,” she said, her voice quiet and low. She was completely naked just like him and held herself still beneath his hands, baring her neck in the universal signal for surrender. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Oliver blinked at her, confused for a moment where exactly he was. If his wife was here, that meant he couldn’t be in prison, but he’d been approached and startled from behind just like in Slabside. “Felicity?” he mumbled questioningly.

“Yeah,” she replied softly, her gaze not leaving his. That sliver of fear from before had vanished, replaced with regret, guilt, and wariness. “I thought I might surprise you… in retrospect, that was a pretty stupid idea.” She very gently rotated her wrists within his grasp. “Mind letting me go, honey?”

Oliver recoiled away from her with a stuttered exhalation, suddenly realizing that he’d lashed out and assaulted his own wife when she’d only wanted to join him in the shower. Bracing himself against the opposite shower wall, he turned away with his eyes squeezed shut, trying to settle his racing heart so that the burn of adrenalin would fade. “Oh god. I’m so sorry.”

She took a hesitant step forwards him, but stopped when he flinched. “It’s my fault,” she murmured. “Not yours. I should have realized you wouldn’t react well to being shocked. You never have and never will. I can’t imagine being in prison helped dial down those instincts at all.”

“I hurt you,” he whispered, eyes flickering down to the faint red circles around her wrists.

Dizziness swamped him and he sank down until he was sitting on the floor, wet and naked and silently crying. He was holding his breath as he didn’t want to hyperventilate; he didn’t want or need the extra oxygen fuelling the adrenaline already pumping through his arteries. He already felt sick, wanting to throw up. The horrid stench of blood was filling his nose, despite the fact he knew it wasn’t real, there wasn’t any blood in the room with him. His fight and flight instincts were kicking in, and right now he wanted to run. Get away. But there was no way his legs were going to be able to hold his weight, as weak and shaky as he currently felt.

“Breathe, Oliver. Just breathe. Don’t hold your breath. You're having a panic attack but you can get through this. Remember, breathe deeply and slowly. I'm here and I've got you.” His wife hastily switched off the shower to stop the flow of water and knelt down, reaching down for him with a heartbroken expression. 

“No, Felicity,” Oliver managed to say, his voice raspy and quiet and so small that he hated himself. “Don’t… don’t touch me. I don’t wanna hurt you more. I… I can’t… I can’t think right now. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not and…”

The tightness in his chest combined with the rigidness of his form and the trembling of his hands was tipping his body into an overload.

“Oliver, look at me.” He shook his head, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. “Oliver Jonas Queen, look me in the eyes, please.” He raised his gaze and her eyes were stunningly fierce. “You know what is real in your heart. You are safe at home with me. You’re not going to hurt me and you know that.”

She crawled towards him.

“Don’t come near me,” he said sharply.

“I’m not scared of you,” she shook her head.

“You should be.”

“I’ve never been scared of you.”

“You don’t know me anymore,” Oliver shuddered. “You don’t know what happened in prison… what I went through… how I’ve changed…”

“I don’t care how you’ve changed, you are still my husband and I still love you,” Felicity replied ferociously. "I can't even begin to imagine what you went through in prison but I can listen, and try to understand and emphasize. I can support you, but only if you let me, okay?"

He swallowed.

"Okay?" she repeated.

Finally, Oliver found the strength to nod.

“Good. Now I really want to hug you but I don’t want to upset you. Can I please touch you?”

He was reluctant to agree, but he finally nodded. Breathing out in relief, Felicity cautiously scooted forwards until she was sitting next to him and then, in one slow but fluid movement, vaulted over his lap so she was seated on top of his thighs. Her body fit snugly against his and in any other situation, Oliver would have been extremely distracted by the fact they were both naked, hot and pressed up against each other, but he was too shaken to even begin feeling aroused.

Felicity carefully wound her arms around him in a gentle embrace, her fingers dancing across his skin and mapping out all of his scars, old and new. Her touches were so gentle and tender, bare warm whispers against his now cold skin, causing his hair to stand on end. With every single stroke of her fingers, she was promising him love and affection and acceptance, everything he thought he didn’t deserve but she constantly proved he so frantically needed. He released a broken sound when her hands cupped his face, caressing the new little scratches and scars there before she leaned in to press kisses over them.

“You’re home,” she murmured. “You’re home and you’re with me and I love you so much.”

His trembling hand raked through her loose blonde hair. “I love you too.” His fingers curled around her hips and he rested his forehead against her shoulder. “Don’t let me go.”

“I’m never letting you go again.”

They stood together, supporting each other as they stepped out of the shower. Oliver reached for a towel, but Felicity stopped him with a pointed look, her fingers trailing from his wrist all the way up to his shoulder. She anchored herself against him as her lips met his in a bruising kiss, one riddled with desperation and hope, with an edge of wistfulness. Oliver's panic attack had been swept aside and now he had a new focus. Tethered to the present, the archer had his wife up against the wall within seconds, but not due to panic or anxiety this time. His knee slipped between her thighs and his hands curled around her hamstrings to lift her, raising her up so she could wrap her legs around his waist. Felicity broke away from their kiss with a heavy gasp, her nose nuzzling over his cheeks.

“This is what I was envisioning my surprising you in the shower would result in,” she whispered.

“I suppose I have a lot to make up for considering I owe you seven months worth of orgasms,” he responded with a growing smirk.

“You do, and rest assured, I've counted how many you owe me,” she said, “But now is about you, not me.” When she took hold of him, her eyes dilated with desire, the archer almost toppled over from the pleasure that arched through him. “Let me take care of you, Oliver.”

He bobbed his head in a nod, wordless.

By the time she’d plastered his face with kisses and was moving down to his neck and collarbones, Oliver was panting, his head was pounding and his blood was singing, but they weren’t a result of fear anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @lexiblackbriar  
> tumblr: @alexiablackbriar13


End file.
